


Fifth of July

by moonblossomtea



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Fourth of July, M/M, One Shot, POV Alternating, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Pre-Book 2: Wayward Son, Short & Sweet, SnowBaz, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossomtea/pseuds/moonblossomtea
Summary: When post-Humdrum Simon mopes to Baz about not having a Fourth of July to celebrate in England, Baz starts plotting. (*rubs hands together, sweetly)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Fifth of July

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, I'm still working on my multichapter fic, but I thought it'd be nice to post something short and sweet for the holiday. For those of you who are still stuck at home like me, think of this as a little "have no fear, Snowbaz fluff is here!" kind of pick-me-up. Let me know what you think! :)

**BAZ:** ****

"Bummer."   
  
I look up from my copy of Dracula (I know) to see Simon drop his phone onto his stomach.    
  
Bunce is at uni, and I don't have class today, so it's been an uneventful evening of me reading a bound collection of masochistically torturous stereotypes for no good reason and him scrolling through his feed while lounging on the sofa with his feet propped atop my lap. His tail has been tickling my thumb for the past hour. Not that I mind.    
  
His screen is facing upward now so I can make out a couple of pictures with fireworks sparking the night sky. His face is still scrunched from what he just said.    
  
"I don't know, it looks like they're having a good time to me," I assess.    
  
He leans his head back against the sofa arm so the theatrically dramatic bobbing of his Adam's apple is on full display when he speaks.    
  
"Exactly."   
  
I raise a brow.    
  
"They are having a good time!" he exclaims.    
  
Now I'm truly perplexed.    
  
"Aren't we? If you want, I can just leave-"   
  
He flips his head up, earning a reflexive smirk from me. I haven't forgotten how to set him off, after all.    
  
"No. No that's not what I mean."   
  
"Then what do you mean? If you want a couple of fireworks, Simon, all you gave to do is ask. It's simple, really. Bunce can find a spell..."   
  
"That's not the point!" he waves a hand. If we were in school again, I'd ask him to use his words already. "I guess- I guess I'm just wondering. Why can't we have a Fourth of July?"   
  
Did I hear that correctly?   
  
"A Fourth of July?"    
  
He reddens.    
  
"Yeah! You know, the fourth day of the seventh month of the year?"   
  
Him giving me lessons on the calendar. I should be annoyed, maybe, but I smile. That's when you know.    
  
"Because there's nothing to celebrate? Unless you believe the loss of a colony is cause for champagne."   
  
I've set my book down at this point, giving his mess of frustrated curls my undivided attention. And believe me, with the beginning of his next bluster of speech, those curls are an even greater disaster.    
  
"Well how about an Independence Day? Of any sort. America has it on the fourth, France on the fourteenth. Why can't we have one?"   
  
I give it some thought.    
  
"Most of the time, we were the ones others were gaining independence from. It's one of the burdens of being an empire, you see."   
  
He rolls his eyes.    
  
"Burdens. Well I might not be an expert or anything, but we had to have popped into existence at some point, yeah? How about celebrating that?"   
  
"If you had bothered picking your head out of the clouds in class sometime, you'd know Britain was formed in 1707..."   
  
He perks up like a daisy in the springtime.    
  
"... but England itself was truthfully there for sometime. As long as the Angles and the Saxons, before the fifth century."   
  
He wilts like said daisy in the fall.   
  
"If you'd like, we can visit France in a week."   
  
"Not the same," he mumbles.    
  
His lips are twisted into a puppy dog pout, and his eye contact drifts to the ceiling. The sight of it sends my heart softening a tint. The sight of him has made me soften in general. The bloody idiot. No, my bloody idiot.    
  
When he's back to his scrolling and I'm back to my pointless literary self-torment, an idea presents itself. 

\---

**SIMON:**

Grumbling in my sleep, I toss to the side. But instead of bouncing off mattress, my hand strikes something hard. And slightly cold. I clench it. It feels like I'm grabbing a bunch of hair. Or grass. Why would there be grass? My eyes shoot open.    
  
Sure enough, I'm met with a bundle of green blades muffling my vision. Further off, I can make out the blur of a tree trunk. Um.    
  
I'm on my feet quicker than a lightning bolt. I even catch myself grabbing for my sword, but the flutter of the wings breaking my jump brings me back to sorry reality. An owl coos somewhere on a tree top above. Reality where I'm apparently- I do a quick spin around- in the middle of the woods in nothing but my trackies. Fuck.    
  
Kidnappers, maybe? But who would want to kidnap me now that I'm a burnt out candle? And what kind of kidnappers would dump me in the middle of nowhere and leave?    
  
I realize it's a hot summer night all of a sudden, and I feel twice as hot even with barely anything on. Fuck.   
  
Then there's a boom rumbling under my feet. It shakes my already rattling bones to a standstill. It's coming from somewhere deeper off ahead. What now?   
  
I guess I have two options. One: bust my pathetically magic-less arse out of here. Two: bust my pathetically magic-less arse in the direction of the noise with nothing to defend myself with.    
  
Fuck it. I mean, not to be the poster boy for the latest depression pamphlet, but what exactly is the worst that could happen? I don't get to see out the rest of my nobly heroic retirement? Fine by me.    
  
I'm crashing slap-happily through the brush until I think I see a movement on the other side of a tree. Someone else? I tumble through the last layer of pine needles.    
  
And standing a little ways off is... Baz. He's fully dressed, with his hair falling over in tousles, grey eyes looking straight at me like he's surprised and like he's been expecting me at the same time.    
  
Is this a dream? I'm still dreaming, amn't I?   
  
I'm about to pinch myself when another rumble erupts. This time, I don't just feel it on my bare feet, but I also see a whole light show sparkle across Baz's face. Then I look up.    
  
And I've got to be dreaming. I've got to still be asleep. Because these things only happen in movies. Or books. Or sappy graphic novels.    
  
A flare of red has trailed up until it's nearly touched the moon and boomed open. Bloomed open, more like. Bloomed into a crackle of red, blue, white, and gold, each peeling into the petals of a flower before dissolving into the dark. Like it's still there, but invisible. Forever laying on a bed of stars.    
  
My heart just about bursts like it's been tied to the fireworks by some spell. It soars and peels along with the show.    
  
"You're not dreaming, Simon."    
  
I realize there's a sting on my bicep, where I've apparently been pinching myself. I let go, leaving myself feeling... I don't know what I feel.    
  
"What is this?"   
  
"It's the Fifth of July," he says simply.   
  
"But. But there's nothing to celebrate..."   
  
My nose scrunches up when I remember what he said earlier. The empty sky looks so empty now.    
  
"That's where you're wrong."   
  
I look down. His eyes are twinkling.    
  
"There is something to celebrate."   
  
"But. I don't remember anything."   
  
The episode with the Humdrum couldn't have wiped my memory now, could it? His face smooths though, giving me a smile that slows my heartbeat again.    
  
"Nothing exactly on this day, no. But America’s independence was technically declared by the Continental Congress on July 2nd, not July 4th, so the reason for celebration doesn't actually have to be on the same day. Our reason for celebration happened here on a winter night."   
  
I look around to see we're in a clearing. Here?   
  
"Our Independence Day. The day the two of us broke free from whatever bloody nonsense had previously kept us bound to fate and prophecy and politics."   
  
Oh. Not just any clearing, then. Our clearing. A blaze of fire sparks in my memory.    
  
I don't know when I moved, but I'm right in front of him now.    
  
"But you said one kiss didn't turn the world upside down."    
  
He rolls his eyes. But he's whispering when he answers.    
  
"Upside down's a little dramatic, don't you think?"   
  
I open my mouth, but his voice is even softer when it interrupts itself.    
  
"I prefer lit up. One kiss itself, maybe not. But then the other one. And the one after that. And the ones after that. It was the beginning. Because you were the sun. You lit my world up. You light it up, Simon. Magic or not. Tail or not."   
  
\---   


**BAZ:**

I wish I knew what he was thinking. I wish I knew if he likes it, at least. I'm usually so good at reading him.    
  
But while his hair is as messy as ever, and his eyes are as painfully blue, he's simply staring at me. I'm usually so good at knowing what to do.    
  
I fight the urge to say something spiteful to turn this spotlight off of me, to run a hand through my hair in frustration, to just meet his gaze.    
  
I think about kissing him. I'll just kiss him, then. Before he can blow up at me for bringing him here in the middle of the night for some lovey-dovey shit I suppose I've never been good at.    
  
But then  _ he's _ kissing  _ me _ .    
  
And it's nothing like that kiss in the fire. It's not urgent or hungry. It's better than that. Soft, slow, sweet. His lips still taste like the cinnamon roll I saw him snag in the middle of the night.    
  
I pull him closer. His hands aren't tugging at my hair, either. They're cupping my jaw gently, like I'm made of porcelain. Like I'm the one who's been broken these past few weeks. I suppose I am too. We both are.    
  
When our lips part for a breath, he leans back slightly so I can see him. It takes my breath away all over again.    
  
"This is the best Fifth of July ever.”   
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
